I’m currently in Las Vegas, yelling at a dog named Poppy.
It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and my daughter Sam is hosting for the first time ever. New house. New husband. Two little boys. A puppy the size of a small lion. It’s a whole thing.
Poppy is big for a puppy. Golden retriever, full of feelings. She responds to tone more than words, which is why every time I shout, “Poppy, stop that!” my husband turns around like I just called him to heel.
(Yes. I call him Papi. No, I didn’t think this through.)
My kids say we’re basically the real-life Modern Family. I’m Gloria — the accent, the dramatics, the passive-aggressive side comments — just minus the cleavage and the body. And my husband? Full-on Jay. Older, white, slightly confused half the time but pretending not to be, walking around with a dishtowel like it's part of his natural anatomy. The dynamic is very much: tropical storm marries retired golf course.
It’s been our running joke for years now. And somehow, it gets more accurate every holiday.
We’re at my daughter’s house, and I’m trying to help in the kitchen. Not take over, just help. Just casually keep the stuffing from looking like it was prepped during a mild earthquake while pretending I’m not silently judging the oven temperature.
And in the middle of all this — the cooking, the barking, the football, the sudden craving for Cool Whip — I find myself mentally drifting back to earlier this month.
To a cave.
To Curaçao.
To four peaceful sea days where the only thing I had to worry about was whether I’d made it to my massage on time.
We sailed aboard the Rotterdam to the ABC islands — Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. Nine days. Four sea days. Enough food to re-traumatize my jeans. And the kind of conversations you overhear in the thermal spa that make you seriously consider canceling your Wi-Fi plan forever.
We bought the thermal pass for the week, because apparently that’s who we are now: the kind of people who pay extra to be hot and silent in a room with strangers. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Was it peaceful? Mostly — except for the loud talkers and the one man who kept cracking the sauna door open to "let fresh air in," like we weren't all in there trying to simmer slowly in eucalyptus and regret.
Our first stop was Curaçao — Willemstad, to be exact. We’ve been there before, so I thought I knew what to expect: bright colors, island heat, iguanas who have seen too much. But this time, we booked a tour to the Hato Caves.
Because apparently, 2025 is my Cave Era.
We already did the Oregon Caves earlier this year and I survived that one, so I thought, “Why not?” I felt confident. Adventurous. Emotionally hydrated.
I was wrong.
What I didn’t realize — because, again, I do not read tour details like a grown adult — was that there are 50 stairs straight up just to get to the entrance of the cave.
Not inside the cave.
Just to get to the front door of the cave.
And it was hot. Not Manila hot, but very close. That sneak-attack humidity where you think you’re fine until your knees start hallucinating and you smell your own eyebrows. I climbed those stairs like I was ascending a sacred mountain, pausing every few steps to “take in the view,” which really meant, “Give me 15 seconds to wonder why I do this to myself.”
The cave itself? Beautiful. Sacred. Quiet.
Also: moist.
Yes, there were bats.
No, I didn’t scream.
Yes, I was sweating in places that aren’t polite to mention on a family blog.
Pro tip: Do not look up with your mouth open. Because you might get lucky — and by lucky, I mean catch a tiny gift from the ceiling. And that gift comes from a bat’s digestive tract. Enough said.
Some areas of the cave you can photograph. Others, you can’t. Apparently it’s to protect sacred formations and stop people from flash-blinding 300-year-old stalactites. Hato has centuries-old limestone structures, and parts of it were used as shelter by enslaved people who escaped. So you enter with respect. You lower your voice. You walk gently. You try not to be a tourist with no self-awareness.
And honestly? Despite the heat and the bat paranoia and the sudden awareness of my cardio capacity — there was this one moment in the cave where everything went quiet. The guide stopped talking. No one moved. The light came in from this tiny shaft above us, and for a second, the whole group just… breathed.
And I thought: This is why I travel.
Not for the cute pins on the map. Not for the “I’ve been there” pride. But for that stillness. The kind that rearranges something inside you.
After the cave, we rode the bus into town. Willemstad is ridiculously charming — like a postcard, but with better food. Dutch-Caribbean houses in every color of the rainbow, curved like toy buildings made of fondant. And the famous Queen Emma Pontoon Bridge — a floating bridge that literally swings open sideways when boats need to pass.
It's magical. Also mildly terrifying.
If you go, definitely walk across it. Just don’t do it when it starts to move, or you’ll end up stranded mid-bounce, waving at both shores like you’re in a very chill hostage situation.
One of my favorite parts of Curaçao is the floating market — boats lined along the pier where vendors live on their ships and sell fresh produce. Most aren’t locals; they sail in from Venezuela and nearby islands, sleep and cook on the boat, sell what they have, then sail back out again to restock. The whole thing feels wonderfully nomadic, like life boiled down to its basics: grow something, feed someone, rest, return.
It made me think: what if life could be that simple?
Move. Pause. Float. Restock. Repeat.
I also learned a new word while we were there: “Dushi.”
It means sweetheart. You’ll hear it everywhere — couples saying it, shopkeepers calling you that when you buy a magnet.
But just know… if you shorten it to “doosh,” it loses some of its sweetness.
And don’t say “sushi” by accident either. Let’s just say… it means something entirely different on the island, and you don’t want to order that by mistake.
And just like that, I’m snapped back to my daughter's kitchen.
My husband’s calling for the meat thermometer.
The puppy is chewing through a napkin.
The Cowboys are scoring again. I’m silently praying the Chiefs don’t. I’ve had enough of the Chiefs for one lifetime.
I’m sweating — not from tropical cave stairs this time, but from the oven.
And I still can’t find the Cool Whip.
So if you’re asking me:
Was Curaçao worth it?
Yes.
Would I do the cave again?
Also yes — with different shoes, stronger knees, and maybe less optimism.
Would I rather be sweating in the Caribbean or yelling at a golden retriever in a Vegas kitchen?
Trick question. I’m doing both.
And somehow, that feels right.
Next up: Bonaire — the island where I almost bought a $45 magnet because it looked like it emotionally understood me.
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